Hypocrisy (18 page)

“Here it is, Mr. Lentz. By noon tomorrow, we’ll have a complete summary of your banking activity and a list of every call you made and received on your cell phone.”

He licked his lips and cracked his knuckles.

“Now I want you to listen to me very carefully,” Dupree said. “You can try to bullshit us all you want. But in the end, we know that you are somehow linked to Dr. Lauren Crawford’s murder. We’re not saying that you pulled the trigger or directly harmed her. But you’re connected. If not today, maybe tomorrow, or maybe next week, you’ll be facing serious charges. Charges that will get you ten, maybe fifteen years in a twelve by twelve cage. If you come clean right now and tell us everything you know, we’ll talk to the DA and help you any way we can. But this is a one-shot deal. Take it now or roll the dice.” Dupree mocked him with an exaggerated grin. “Know what else? You’re a pretty attractive man, Mr. Lentz, and I’m sure, absolutely certain that the inmates are going to find you very appealing. Get my drift? Or do I have to explain?”

This was the moment of truth Dupree had faced with dozens of suspects. It was a game of poker. Dupree claimed to have the ace of spades. Now it was time for Lentz to fold or call her bluff.

“Can I call my lawyer now?”

His defiance stunned Dupree. She thought for sure he’d cave in. She didn’t believe so, but maybe his bank records and cell phone activities wouldn’t reveal anything incriminating.

“You’re free to go,” Dupree said. “But we’ll be talking again real soon.”

Without uttering another sound, Lentz glared at Dupree with contempt, sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, bolted for the door, and slammed it after he walked out.

Dupree looked at T.J., shaking her head. “That went well.”

“Either he’s got nothing to hide,” T.J. said, “or he’s an idiot.”

“Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.” Dupree glanced at her watch. “Let’s go talk to Brenda.”

On the way to speak with Brenda, neither Dupree nor T.J. said a word to each other—a rare phenomenon. Dupree guessed that the case had drained T.J as much as it had her. Since becoming a homicide detective, she’d worked on dozens of difficult cases. Some that involved multiple murders, mutilated bodies, children beaten to death, gang-related shootings, and snitches killed execution style by the mob. All of the murders disturbed her, of course, but this investigation heightened her anguish. At first, when she recognized that this case was like no other, she wasn’t quite sure what distinguished it. But now that some time had passed and she’d learned more about Dr. Crawford and her groundbreaking cancer research, Dupree realized why the case meant so much to her.

Her mother had died of breast cancer and Dr. Crawford had worked tirelessly searching for a cure, or at least a more effective treatment that would extend a patient’s life while preserving their quality of life. This was the connection. This was why Dupree would not rest until she solved the case. With Dr. Crawford gone, who would finish her work? How many more people would senselessly die from this horrible disease if no one carried on with the research?

And then there was another issue Dupree tried desperately to flush out of her mind, but like a nagging migraine, it just wouldn’t go away. She didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to feel envious or resentful, yet she could not lie to herself. It seemed that Dr. Crawford had enjoyed the kind of mother-daughter relationship Dupree longed for. When Mrs. Crawford spoke of her daughter, she glowed with pride. When the heartbroken woman told Dupree that her daughter called twice a day, every day, and that they had dinner together twice a week, Dupree could only feel envy. She imagined what it would be like if she and her daughter enjoyed
the same intimacy. Yes, Dupree had good reason to embrace this investigation. It was more than just doing her job. Right or wrong, it was now personal.

“Earth calling Amaris,” T.J. said, startling Dupree. “Are you visiting another dimension?”

“Sorry, just lost in my thoughts.”

They found Brenda about to bite into what looked like pastrami on rye.

“I guess we’re just in time,” T.J. said.

“That looks yummy,” Dupree added. “Is that from Katz’s Deli?”

Brenda nodded. “Ain’t nothing like it on the whole damn Earth.”

“How did you get it? They’re all the way downtown,” Dupree said. “I know they deliver but not to the Bronx.”

“You should know by now I’ve got connections.” She winked. “Can’t share all my secrets with you, Sweetie.”

Brenda set down her half-eaten sandwich and wiped a napkin across her mustard-covered lips. “I know it’s not ladylike, but there’s no way to eat a sandwich like this according to the rules of etiquette.”

Dupree laughed. “Why don’t you finish your lunch and we’ll come back in a little while.”

Brenda pointed to the empty chair right next to her. “You set your cute little behind right there. My vittles can wait.”

Little behind
? Dupree sat down and T.J. stood behind her.

Brenda pointed to the Excel spreadsheet displayed on the computer screen. “I ran the name ‘Oscar’ through the database and searched all convicted felons charged with assault and battery or aggravated assault released from prison over the last ten years. I would have gone back a few more years, but that’s as far as the database goes. In New York, I found twenty-seven Oscars—didn’t think there were that many in the whole damn world. Eleven of them had Italian-sounding last names.”

Brenda clicked on page two of the spread sheet and pointed again to the computer screen. “Three of the Oscars live in New York City.”

“Are there mug shots in the database?” T.J. asked.

“I’m getting to that. Keep your pants on.”

She opened several pages, hit the right keys, and like magic, all eleven images appeared on the screen. One by one Brenda reviewed their rap sheets. She pointed to the screen. “This guy here.” Brenda zoomed in on his name. “Oscar Cassano might be of particular interest.”

Brenda zoomed in on Cassano’s rap sheet and criminal record. “He’s been a busy boy. In and out of prison for a good part of his adult life and even spent a year in a juvenile detention center when he was a teenager. Every offense involved violence. His last stint was supposed to be in Auburn State Prison. But he was terrorizing a few new inmates—beat the tar out of one of them—so they shipped him off to Attica. And I don’t think I have to tell you that that prison is a supermax facility.”

“I thought that only lifers or criminals convicted of murder were sent to Attica,” T.J. said.

“Actually,” Dupree answered, “It’s not normal procedure, but in rare cases the courts will send a particularly violent criminal there even if he hasn’t committed murder.” Dupree turned towards Brenda. “How much time did he serve and when was he released?”

Brenda studied the monitor and scrolled down the page. “Served five years and they released him about two years ago.”

“Do we have his last known address?” Dupree asked.

Brenda pointed to the screen. “2020 Webster Avenue, east of Walnut in Yonkers.”

T.J. tapped Dupree on the shoulder. “I don’t have the best memory, but didn’t Ivan Tesler say that our boy Oscar here used to be a regular at a bar on Walnut?”

Dupree nodded. “A watering hole called the Night Owl.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, partner?” T.J. said.

“Yes. Let’s pay Mr. Cassano a surprise visit.”

“So you want me to drive?” T.J. asked.

“Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”

Dupree stood and brushed the wrinkles out of her slacks. “As always, Brenda, you are my hero. Thanks for all your help.”

“That’s what they pay me for, Sugar. Good luck.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The ride to Yonkers took less time than Dupree expected. She turned onto Webster Avenue and Dupree perused up and down the street but found only one tight parking spot barely big enough for a compact car. She pulled next to a blue Nissan Ultima and slowly cranked the wheels as she backed her way into the spot.

T.J. laughed. “You’re shitting me, right? You’d be lucky to squeeze a Smart Car into that spot, let alone this boat.”

“You just watch me.” Having lived in the city all her life, and with street parking at a premium, Dupree had had lots of practice squeezing into small spots. Without having to abort the mission or start over, she carefully parked the car two inches away from the curb without touching a bumper.

“I gotta tell you, Amaris. I’m impressed. I’d have bet a king’s ransom you couldn’t do it.”

“Never, ever bet against a determined woman.”

“How do you want to play this?” Dupree asked. “If our guy is home, I don’t think he’s coming with us without a fight.”

“You go around to the back and I’ll knock on the front door,” T.J. suggested.

They stepped out of the car and made their way toward the duplex. 2020 Webster Avenue stood on the left. Just as Dupree was about to move down the long driveway, T.J. stopped her. “No heroics, there, Annie Oakley.”

Dupree winked. “Got it covered.”

Dupree made her way toward the back of the duplex. To avoid being seen by Cassano, she hugged the structure as she moved, ducking under the windows.

Once near the back door, Dupree drew her weapon and stood with her back pressed against the building, just to the side of the entrance. Standing there, she listened for any sound coming from the front of the house—any sign that T.J. had engaged the perp. As she stood there, a little shaky, she noticed that the backyard looked as if it had been professionally manicured. The lawn—freshly cut—looked like carpeting. Vibrantly-colored flowers lined the perimeter, and perfectly trimmed hedges bordered the neighbor’s yard. Not what she expected. Then again, maybe Cassano rented the place and his landlord was fussy about the way his property looked.

“Amaris?” T.J.’s voice echoed from around the corner of the house and startled Dupree.

“I’m here.”

T.J. appeared just as he holstered his weapon. “Either he’s not home or he doesn’t like company. What now?”

“The Night Owl is a few blocks away and it used to be Cassano’s hangout. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find him there.”

“Or,” T.J. said, “maybe Jake Sullivan, the bartender, knows where we can find him.”

Dupree spotted a small, gravel-covered lot next to the Night Owl. Not that Yonkers was the most upscale community in the New York City area, but it seemed more like a beer joint one might find in a rural town outside of Amarillo, Texas. The ramshackle structure looked in desperate need of a bucket of paint and a window washer.

Dupree chuckled when she saw a mural painted on the side of the building. A giant owl was roosting on a Harley Roadster, giving the thumbs-up sign with its wing. Of course, considering the obvious mentality of the clientele who would patronize such a place, it seemed entirely possible that the owl was flipping everyone off.

They stepped inside the tavern. Dupree noticed the occupancy sign over the front door limiting the number of patrons to fifty, but based on a quick scan and headcount, she guessed that there were no more than fifteen patrons milling about. A few occupied the bar area. Two guys, dressed like hardcore bikers, played pool, and a couple other guys were shooting darts. Clearly defiant against the public no-smoking regulations, half the patrons were puffing on cigarettes and the two pool players sucked on cigars. The buzz of barroom chatter hushed to a whisper once the patrons spotted them. They gawked at the detectives, evidently aware they were cops.

Dupree and T.J. moved toward the bar. The bartender, tall and wiry with a long ponytail hanging to the center of his back, immediately greeted them.

“Hi, folks. I’m Jake. A little out of your element, no?” He chuckled. “What can I get for ya? A pitcher of Kool-Aid, a Perrier—maybe a Shirley Temple?”

“I think we’re just fine.” Dupree elbowed T.J. “Do you have the phone number for the Department of Public Health programmed in your cell?”

T.J. pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I think I do.”

“Hey, now,” Jake said, “let’s not get carried away. I was just messing with you. I know you’re not regulars so I figured you must be the law.”

“Apparently,” Dupree said, “you have no respect for the law or this place wouldn’t have a cloud of blue smoke hovering in the air. Now, Jake, can we have a little chat or would you like us to make the call?”

“Please don’t do that,” Jake pleaded. “How can I help ya?”

Dupree looked around and could see that everyone in the bar was paying very close attention to their conversation. She spoke softly. “We understand that you’re close friends with Oscar Cassano. Does he come in here often?”

Jake didn’t answer immediately. But the question clearly rattled his nerves. “Sorry, I never heard of the guy.”

“Really?” Dupree said. “Interesting you should say that because another patron of yours told us that he used to play pool with Cassano in here regularly.”

T.J. placed his elbows on the bar and peered at Jake. “He claims Cassano and you are bosom buddies.”

“Look it, I said I don’t know anybody by the name of Cassano and I don’t.”

“We’re wasting our time with this joker.” She looked at Jake. “We’ll be back in a little while. Don’t go anywhere.”